


Genius? Or An Angel?

by Seyanna



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Characters will be added as they appear - Freeform, M/M, You know that one with Charles Dance, the sassy phantom, the story is pretty inspired by the Yeston and Kospit version
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-27
Updated: 2016-05-17
Packaged: 2018-05-29 13:18:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6376348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seyanna/pseuds/Seyanna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patroclus is a recently orphaned boy taken in by the kind manager of an opera house, but little does he know of the strange secret they keep underneath it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Beginning

Patroclus stared unblinking out the window of the carriage. He brushed his thumb idly over the violin case in his lap, feeling along the bumps of the stitching. He was surprised his father had let him take it with him, but he realized the old man had never actually cared for it anyways. He didn’t mind, to him, it was priceless, and he was glad to have it with him. 

He wasn’t exactly sad to be leaving. His father had never cared for him anyways, and he had a reputation to uphold. Patroclus was just a liability in his life, and know he had a good excuse to send him away. This did technically make him an orphan, though, which meant he couldn’t make any claims back to his father later in life. Further meaning that his father had cut his son out of his life completely. He shuddered a little. He had come to terms with leaving his father, but living somewhere foreign in the centre of Paris was another thing entirely. 

A hand was placed on his shoulder, warm and comforting. It was the man who had come to collect him from his home and bring him here, he had said his name was Odysseus. 

“It really won’t be as bad as you think.” he reassured, “Not many are given this opportunity, and it’s really a lovely place to live. With your experience, I think you’ll fit in well.” 

He almost wanted to laugh. By experience he meant the brief year of dance lessons he had taken on a whim. His mother enjoyed it, but he had been terrible, and his father had promptly put an end to his teaching. Everyone else, however, insisted it meant he was cut out for this. 

He nodded slowly at the man next to him, hoping it would suffice. Thankfully it did, and Odysseus slipped back into silence, leaving Patroclus alone for now. 

They stayed like that for the rest of the trip, and eventually the country roads changed into city streets. He tried to focus on the scenery, he’d never been to Paris much as a child, and only had one vague memory of it. His mother had taken him here once for his birthday, as his father had business here. They’d gone to a small cafe and gotten some tea and slices of cake before wandering around the streets, stopping to listen to street musicians. Come to think of it, they weren’t even that good, but he remembered enjoying it because of the look on his mother’s face. It was one of the few memories he had of her as well. 

Tears threatened as he thought of her, but he bit them back as he noticed the horses slowing. They turned a corner into a circular courtyard, some sort of city square, and stopped. In front of them was a huge opera house. There were tall pillars framing the glass windows, etched out of white marble, and heavy iron doors leading to the interior. People dressed in their best milled around the outside. It seemed the show for tonight had just ended. Patroclus stared at it in awe.

“Are you coming?” Odysseus called. 

He jumped a little at the noise. The older man was holding the carriage door open, offering a hand to use to jump down. Patroclus took it hesitantly, and Odysseus guided him across the cobblestone to the main entrance. 

“Welcome to the Salle le Peletier, my young friend, one of the finest theatres in Paris. But you may call it home.” 

The small boys eyes widened in disbelief. He knew full well that the orphanage doubled as a school for dance and music in affiliation with the theatre, but he had assumed it was a separate building and they’d only come here for lessons. He never thought he’d actually be living inside of it. It was definitely feasible, though, considering how large it was. He crowded closer to his companion, not wanting to get lost in a sea of people. 

Odysseus never faltered though. He practically glided through the crowd, waving to noblemen and kissing the hands of their wives. He pulled Patroclus along with him, keeping a firm grip on his arm as they ascended the steps to the main entrance. There were even more people inside, dancers, actors, musicians, and fans all crowded into the foyer together. Odysseus paid this group no heed and instead skirted the edge of the room to a staircase at the side that they climbed quickly. On the upper level were a row of doors, different offices and file rooms. There were a few men up here, dressed in suits and speaking in low voices as they smoked cigars and watched the people below. They didn’t glance at Patroclus as he was pushed into the center room, but they did stop Odysseus, who gave him a slightly apologetic look, motioning for him to go into the room alone. Patroclus nodded, hoping that this just meant he would join him soon. 

He stopped breathing for a second when the door closed and he noticed that the room was actually occupied by two other men. One was a huge brute of a man, tall and muscular with dark skin. The other was more sleight, very pale but with eyes that burned right through him. He was lounging behind a desk, and there would have been an easy air to him if Patroclus wasn’t so terrified of the other man. He wanted to reach back and slowly slip back through the door, hoping that maybe they hadn’t actually noticed him. 

But they did. 

“You must be Patroclus.” the smaller man grinned at him, “I'm Peleus.” 

He waited, probably for a response, but none came. 

He cleared his throat, “I’m the owner of this establishment and founder of the conjoined orphanage.” He gestured to the other man, “This is Chiron. He’s in charge of the ballet dancers and will be one of your main caretakers here. I have matters to attend to, but I suggest you two get acquainted.” He stared for a moment, almost daring Patroclus to say something, but he didn’t   
Peleus gave a curt nod, obviously not impressed, and turned back to his papers. 

“I hope you get along with the others here, I shall see you at dinner.” he glanced at Chiron, who made a little bow and then went to place his hand on Patroclus’ shoulder. 

“Come little one, I will show you around and help you settle in.” Patroclus was surprised at the tenderness of his voice. 

He let himself be led out of the room, where Odysseus was laughing with the previous group of men. He smiled when he saw them. 

“That was fast.” 

 

He made to say goodbye, but Chiron silenced him with a raised hand, offering to show Patroclus around. Odysseus nodded, turning back to his conversation. Patroclus was almost disappointed, he had only known the man for an hour, but he’d known Chiron for about thirty seconds. He let himself be led away though, it sounded like he’d be with Chiron a lot from now on, and he had to admit, the man had a very calming affect on him. They passed the smaller offices again, going back down the stairs. At the bottom, they turned right, away from the crowd and into a long hallway. Right beneath the stairs, two young men were arguing about… something. Patroclus wasn't close enough to hear, but one was gesturing wildly to the beaten wooden door next to them while the other just shook his head. 

“Where does that go?” Patroclus asked.

“Just down to the basement where the sets and costumes are stored, I'd advise you not to go down there, it's easy to get lost and you may upset the stage manager.” 

Patroclus assured that he would stay out of the way, but kept his eyes on the set movers.   
The hysteric one looked as though he'd seen a ghost. 

Chiron simply prodded him onward, taking him further down the hall, to a side door that actually led downstairs. Inside were the changing rooms for actors and prop pieces that would be used in the show tomorrow tonight. There was another set of stairs there that led directly onto the stage, where Chiron took him. He showed him around the wings a bit, navigating through more set and costume racks. There were a few actors idling there, sharing a bottle of wine and laughing. 

Patroclus walked to the edge of the curtain, right where the real stage started. He glanced at Chiron first, asking silent permission before walking slowly out into the centre of it. His steps echoed softly into the high ceiling above him, and he marvelled at the grandness of it all. Stretched out before him were rows upon rows of seats, private boxes for special guests, the front stage lights, and the orchestra pit. Above all of it was a huge, splendid chandelier that hovered over the audience seats. Patroclus wondered dimly how many candles it took to light it. 

Chiron let him stare for a while, before patting his shoulder gently and saying he had other matters to attend to. Dinner would be ready in a few hours and he would see him then. He walked off briskly, taking the feeling of confidence Patroclus had with him. That was two adults now that had left him in the span of five minutes. Now that he was alone, he felt out of place. The opera house was gorgeous, probably the nicest building he’d ever been in, and he felt disrespectful even stepping foot in it. This wasn’t a place for him, he didn’t belong here. 

He was suddenly aware of how small he was on the stage, how far the grandiose chandelier loomed above him. The walls seemed cold and dark. He swallowed, backing toward the entrance and sliding silently through the door. 

He all but ran from the stage, stepping out into the open to catch his breath. Riding with Odysseus, meeting with Peleus and Chiron, taking in the sheer beauty of this place… it had been so overwhelming. But now everyone had gone, and reality set in. This was supposed to be his home. No matter how out of place he felt, he lived here. 

He looked around for Chiron, the only face he'd be able to recognize amongst all these strangers, but he was nowhere to be found. Instead, he saw boys his own age, laughing and playing around the huge stair banisters. Luckily, they paid him no mind. He turned his back on them, staying close to the wall and walking slowly back through the hall, unsure of where to go now. 

Eventually, he came back to where he had seen the stage hands arguing. Something about the door commanded his attention, but it was very unremarkable. It had small cracks throughout it and the paint was peeling. There must have been better ways into the basement, because Patroclus could hardly imagine anyone trying to fit the rolling flats he'd seen on the stage through this thing. He shook his head and left it alone. It was probably just a costume room, and he didn't want to be caught breaking a rule he'd been given less than ten minutes ago. He spotted a small alcove under the stairs near the door and figured it would be all right. He nestled in among a few boxes, pulling his knees up to his chest. His hand went automatically to his side, where the violin should have been, but there was only the floor. He groaned internally as he realized he’d left it in the carriage. He settled instead for rubbing the pad of his thumb along his other fingertips, until motion carried him off into a light sleep. 

He was awoken later by Chiron passing by and mentioning that dinner was ready. He got up quickly, catching up to him on his way to the kitchens. It smelled good, but he found that he really had no appetite. Chiron left him at one of the tables, going to separate room to join the other adults. 

Patroclus shifted uncomfortably. He grabbed a few things for his plate, for the sake of appearance, but didn't touch it. A few of the other boys tried to sit by him, offering up small talk and asking if he'd like to play cards with them. When he didn't even bother to look up, they shrugged and moved away to their actual friends. He was grateful for the quiet. 

Most of the others finished eating quickly, grabbing dice and cards to play with on the huge rug in front of the fire. He took this opportunity to scrape his plate clean and make a quiet getaway to the dorm rooms. It was already dark out, and no one commented on him going to bed early. 

He saw that someone had moved his small bag of belongings into here, setting it onto an empty cot near the door along with some bedding. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the violin resting on the floor next to the bed. 

He pushed his bag up underneath the pillow and flopped underneath the blankets without ceremony. He stayed there a while, staring up at the ceiling until his dorm mates started trickling in for the night. He simply turned on his side, throwing the blanket over his face so they wouldn't disturb him. 

There were a few quiet conversations in the dark as people slowly drifted off to sleep, but the room soon quieted. Patroclus stayed where he was, focusing on the sounds of people breathing. He doubted he'd find sleep tonight, and poked his head out to observe the shadows in the room. He stayed like that until it neared midnight, and must have finally fallen asleep, for he heard a piano playing somewhere within the theatre, so sweet and gentle it could only be his imagination. A voice rose in song alongside it, unlike anything he'd ever heard. It glided effortlessly throughout all registers like a clear bell in the night, hitting supernatural notes that one could only hear in dreams. Patroclus thought it must be some divine angel, for he could never think of something so beautiful.


	2. First Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Perhaps being antisocial and hiding from your problems wasn't the best idea.

The next few days were hell on earth. 

After the first night, he was expected to follow the same schedule that all of the other children in the house did. He got up when they did, went to breakfast with them, and then was thrown into music and dance classes with them. Peleus figured that while they were here, they might as well. They were given academic studies as well, but they were mostly being groomed to perform in the chorus of the opera, perhaps becoming soloists in the future. 

Patroclus hated it. He’d never been particularly strong or fit, and ballet was proving to be much harder than he remembered. His muscles ached and small bruises had formed here and there from mishaps. Music had been even worse. His own speaking voice wasn’t very pleasant, let alone his singing. 

His instrumental classes were even worse. Upon seeing his violin, the teacher had shrieked with delight, insisting that he must play for them, only to be thoroughly disappointed moments later. It wasn’t his violin, it was his mother's, and he’d never learned to play it, only carried it around as a keepsake and because he didn’t want his father to throw it out. 

Chiron assured him it would be easy to learn, and the teachers here were patient. He’d find his own little niche here in the opera house and perhaps one day play in the orchestra. But it wasn’t easy, and he wasn’t improving in the slightest. He wanted to, he really did, but it was just so difficult, and he found himself giving up easily. 

Soon he started skipping lessons altogether. He wandered the halls, avoiding tutors and servants alike, finding shadows and corners he could hide in. After nearly being caught several times, he decided he needed a definitive place. Somewhere quiet he could spend his days thinking. Once again, he thought back to the basement door. He passed by it nearly every day, and hardly anyone entered that way. He had been right that there were other doors, easier access points to move props through and reach the stables. In fact, it seemed the old thing really only contained discarded pieces that were broken or weren’t in use anymore. Perhaps he could hide there and be useless as well. 

He decided to gather a few things. His violin, which he kept close to him for fear of theft, and a few old books he’d gathered in his short time here. Chiron had given him one, and he’d found some lying around, old and covered in dust. As a last minute thought, he grabbed the lump of wax that was on his nightstand. It was barely even a candle anymore, but it would do. The dorm was empty, and no one noticed him quietly moving through the halls with an armful of books. 

He shut the door behind him quietly. It was dark, and he was glad he had brought along his little candle stub. He dropped the books on the floor, setting the violin on them carefully, before fiddling around with his matches. The candle didn’t offer much light, but it was enough. With it, he actually found an old lamp on a cluttered table in the corner. It was a bit rusted, but it worked. He placed it on the floor in the centre of the room, allowing him to see everything. It was more or less what he expected. There were racks of old costumes, a few canvas paintings, tarps, fake walls, and random pieces of furniture piled around the sides. There was a definite clear path through the room, which led to a doorless entryway. Patroclus peaked through it cautiously. There was a small set of steps that descended further into the darkness and probably the rest of the basement. He was content with just the front room and left it alone. 

He pulled a dusty old chair out from under an old carpet, wiping it off and settling in. He leaned his head back against the stone wall, breathing out a deep sigh. It had been weeks since he was truly alone. Always there was someone there, or someone looking for him. Not out of actual concern or anything, but because the tutors or Chiron usually sent them off in search of him. They didn’t care whether he went to class or not, most of the boys avoided him now anyway, finally realizing how strange and detached he was. He was grateful, to a point. He didn’t necessarily want friends, but he wasn’ sure what to do with himself either. He pushed the thought from his mind. 

Instead his thoughts drifted to music. Ever since his first day here, a haunting, disembodied voice had lulled him to sleep. He tried asking about it once, but the other orphans either had no idea what he was talking about, or they turned suspiciously palid. He didn’t press, thinking that perhaps it was some hidden talent from the chorus. Soon, though, he started hearing the rumours. No one talked directly to him, but he was always listening. He learned from a group of dancers that most of the house believed there was some sort of opera ghost, and there had been for some years now. Apparently, most others heard the late night music as well, along with other occurrences. Statues moving of their own accord, painting or vases crashing to the floor for no reason, and a mystery figure gliding around the basement and sometimes the upper levels. Patroclus assumed that was the reason he hadn’t been allowed down here. 

A few had claimed to see this strange apparition, stagehands especially. According to them, he had a terrifying face. The skin was pulled away to reveal a stark white skull, with blood that dripped through its teeth, and fire that burned in its hollow eyes. Its body was wreathed in shadow, and it floated a few inches off the ground. Some claimed it had leaped out in front of them, lunging for their throats, screaming and then laughing maniacally as it disappeared through the walls. Others had said that it stalked them through the halls, placing its cold hands on them, as if to snatch them away to its lair. Others still said that it was a child who had died a terrible death, wailing in the basement for its mother. 

Patroclus just shook his head at all of this. He admitted the music was strange, and sounded a bit ghostly itself, but he wasn’t superstitious. A lot of stories clashed with each other, and he assumed that no one had actually seen it. In fact, boys would intentionally wear heavy dark cloaks and stand ominously in dimly lit hallways to frighten the chorus girls. He figured it was a tale invented long ago that had stuck with the troupe, giving them something to focus on and to keep them out of the basement. 

He laughed a little at that now, supposing that perhaps the phantom stories were a good thing, as the underground catacombs were now void of life for the time being. If it weren’t for a fear of ghosts, he could easily imagine the other children daring each other down into its depths. 

Without them, it was actually very peaceful down here. It was cold, and the damp gave it a very strange, musky scent, but it was quiet. It was dark enough to be relaxing, and the old furniture was quite comfortable. He found himself enjoying it, settling into the dusty fabric as he plucked a book from the top of his pile. It was in latin, which he couldn’t read, but he didn’t mind. He just wanted something mind numbing, and letting his eyes wander over foreign words seemed to do the trick. 

A screech broke his concentration, sending him roughly three feet into the air. He landed awkwardly on the armrest of the chair, looking around wildly. Had someone fallen down the stairs? Was someone being murdered? He forgot how to breathe as he fumbled for the door, trying to escape. He didn’t want to stay to find out what was happening. 

Up the stairs, he heard someone else trying to come in. Either they had also heard the scream, or had seen his lamplight under the doorway. Regardless, a horrible panic seized him. He was suddenly plagued with images of being framed if someone was indeed dying in the level below him. Worst case scenario, but he couldn’t help it. He also couldn’t be seen here. 

He turned on his heel and made way for the dark entryway on the other side of the room, gathering up his small candle and taking the stairs two at a time. His breathing became more shallow as he descended, his candle flame flickering weakly. The scream sounded again. He froze, listening closely. It sounded like… a horse? 

He fell against the wall, catching his breath and trying not to feel like an idiot. Of course no one had died, it was just the horses in the underground stable. They tended to shriek when they were upset. 

Except, why were they upset? 

He looked back up the stairs. Someone might still be up there, in his little room. He’d left the violin there, so they’d know it was him. If he was going to get in trouble, he’d rather not do it now. Seeing quite a bit less danger, he figured he might as well visit the horses. 

The hallway towards them wasn’t as ominous as he’d previously thought. In fact, it was quite warm. The stables opened out into the field behind the opera house, letting in a slight afternoon breeze. He smiled a little. Perhaps things weren’t so bad afterall. 

Except they were. 

Patroclus really needed to pay better attention. Not two steps ahead of him was a large, unconscious, nastily bruised man. His muddy coveralls suggested he was obviously the stable hand. His crumpled form and bloody nose suggested that this was why the horses had been agitated. 

He swallowed loudly. This wasn’t good. He went from one bad situation to a worse one, and it was high time he left, before whoever had been in his hiding spot came down and found him like this. He’d surely be blamed for it, wouldn't he? The stable hand has just been badly beaten, and the only witness was the anti social boy who screams in his sleep from night terrors and insists on the opera ghost being real. 

He backed up a few paces, the horses were screaming again, but it sounded dull and far away. He didn’t belong here, and now he was going to get caught with an excuse as to why. He was going to be thrown into the streets. 

He turned suddenly, smacking into something solid. He let out a small gasp and fell to the ground, his breath leaving him. He rolled onto his side, groaning and touching his forehead lightly. There was a tender spot near his eyebrow that would probably bruise later, but there was no blood. He’d probably rammed his face into one of the sconces on the wall. 

Though, looking up, that wasn’t the case at all. His eyes cleared, and he saw a figure towering over him. At first he assumed it was Chiron, though he realized it was too pale. In fact, it was too pale to be a human at all. Staring back at him was the stark, bone white face of the Phantom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *CHANGES WRITING STYLE HALF WAY THROUGH*   
> Sorry this took so long, but quite honestly, I'm using this whole fic as an experiment, so it's going to be pretty messy. I'm just working on styles that I like and finding my own voice in writing, so this whole thing is rough. Not going to lie I barely edited this chapter to begin with.

**Author's Note:**

> I read somewhere that the opera house in Phantom was originally based on the Palais Garnier, which was called the Salle le Peletier before it burned down. Fun fact of the day. 
> 
> Also, sorry my writings a bit rusty! I would really appreciate some constructive criticism.


End file.
